


Carnivore's Eyes

by samimiami



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 20:24:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samimiami/pseuds/samimiami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns from a night out drinking with Lestrade to find 221B seemingly empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carnivore's Eyes

Trudging upstairs to his flat after a night out drinking with Lestrade was literally an uphill battle for John Watson. He fumbled around in his pockets for his keys, unlocked the door, and shut it gently behind him. He habitually does this out of courtesy for the possibly sleeping Sherlock, although the chances of him being asleep were slim to none. John shucks off his snow-coated jumper, and places it on the table next to Sherlock’s microscope and half-finished cup of tea. How Sherlock was alive and functioning seemed impossible to John, seeing as he neither slept nor ate. A surveying glance around the flat told John that Sherlock was out investigating something for a case, and probably wouldn’t surface until morning.

On his way to the shower for a quick clean-up and toss off, he recognised a rancid smell emanating from Sherlock’s bedroom. He pushed the door open a bit and the stench intensified tenfold. His inebriated mind was in no shape for investigating any odious experiments, especially none that looked reasonably toxic.

John stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower, peeling off his slightly sweaty clothes. Pubs always do overcompensate for the climate, and alcohol alone can make him perspire.

He looked disappointedly at himself in the mirror, poking and pulling at the bags under his eyes and prodding at a blemish on his shoulder blade, the kind he hasn’t gotten since high school. Finally, he looked despairingly at his prick, which could only seem to get hard at inappropriate moments. _Just one satiating toss off in the shower and I’ll sleep well tonight._ In an attempt to stimulate himself, he slid one warm hand down his chest and firmly gripped his prick at its base, stroking slowly as he stepped into the shower.

When he finally came, it was with a tremendous sigh of relief; he had to grab the safety bar to stabilise himself. Normally, in these blissful moments he thought of a well-endowed woman just finishing sucking him off, but right then, he imagined a mop of dark curly hair level with his waist. Then a handsome, chiselled face beaming up at him… and reality hit him in the form of a hundred pinpoints of stinging water falling on him, forming icy rivulets that meandered down his chest.

“Bugger shit FUCK,” he yelled, reaching for the knob to turn off the water.

Shivering, he groped under the counter for a towel to wrap himself in. To find any relief from the freezing cold state he was in was the goal, but he was left dismally thinking of how long it had been since he’d had the warmth of another human against him. God, John would do anything to get laid at this point. He was so desperate for intimate human interaction that it wasn’t just about the sex anymore; the post-coital cuddling was what he yearned for most. It’s been _months_ since he fucked anyone in any shape or form.

Despite speculation, he and Sherlock aren’t actually getting it on, even if John occasionally thinks of Sherlock while he masturbates. It’s imperative for John to avoid any desire whatsoever, though, because wanting to sleep with Sherlock was like getting a paper cut on already sunburned skin. The paper cut of Sherlock’s indifference and the extant sunburn from being exposed to an intellect so bright that attempts to shield yourself are futile; you’re always drawn back to him like a moth to a flame.

John shielded his eyes from the now overpowering bathroom lights, and draped himself in the towel he’d found in the very back of the cabinet. He padded into his dark, neat, quiet oasis of a bedroom—where none of those three things were true.  
His bedside lamp was turned to dim, even though John could _swear_ he’d turned it off before he’d left for his shift at the surgery that morning. His sheets were a crumpled mess, and the comforter had been thrown off the end of the bed completely. Being the military man he is John would never leave his sleeping area in this state. A mousy snore was disturbing the usual silence of John’s room.

Upon closer inspection, the silhouette of a cosy-looking Sherlock Holmes could be seen, spooning two of the four pillows on the bed, the other two stashed under his perfect curls and soft countenance. The way his chest moved slowly up and down was so soothing that John almost fell asleep standing in the doorway.

He ducked out of his room and tiptoed out to his armchair, shifted the union jack pillow under his arm, and clicked on the telly. Two men were animatedly talking about a match that had just concluded. _Sherlock’s in my bed right now, I could do anything I wanted to, but instead I’ve banished myself to the couch._ With that thought, he resolutely stood, clicked off the telly, and practically marched back into his bedroom, throw pillow still in hand. Sherlock had rolled a cocoon for himself from John’s sheets, leaving John with a corner.

He opened his bureau drawer as quietly as he could manage, but the inevitable sound of wood sliding across wood made Sherlock stir, and nearly awaken. _Wood on wood, how apropos. _He rummaged through the drawer to find a clean pair of pants, making a mental note to clear out the drawer in the morning. After pulling them on, he takes a deep breath, and stretches out on his back, onto _his_ mattress in _his_ bedroom. _Why is this so stressful?___

John shifts onto his side, facing away from Sherlock, and focuses on a spot on the wall until his eye lids grow heavy. With Sherlock shifting around as much as he was, they were soon lying back to back, and John could do nothing to avoid it. Their lungs were so close that their breathing inadvertently became synchronized and John felt as if their hearts beat as one, one machine to reign over them all.

John got himself half-hard just thinking of it; he and Sherlock taking all of London _the whole world, even_ to explore and conquer--traipsing around solving murders here and there until they fancied a cup of tea. They’d stop in anywhere and be offered whatever they’d like. They could stay the night in Paris and Rome and Berlin as premier guests. Pleasing each other in every way possible, in every city they could ever want to visit. Every night they’d undress each other slowly, and he _John Watson_ would ignite that hungry look in Sher—suddenly a lanky arm was thrown over John’s, and he was being pulled closer to the centre of the bed.

John Watson, resident teddy bear.

Instinctively, John thrashed and squirmed to try to escape Sherlock’s grasp, but even in his drunken haze knew that this was a dream come true.

Sherlock’s breath was hot on his neck, but it sent frigid goose bumps down John’s spine. Sherlock had effectively pulled John into his cotton cocoon, and his bare chest was pressed flush against John’s bare back.

They stayed like this for what seemed an eternity, before John abruptly remembered who it was he was cuddling with, and flipped over so that he and Sherlock were facing. John pushed himself back to the edge of the mattress so as to increase the distance between them, and squinted at his flatmate’s dull expression in the dim light. He drew his knees closer to his chest—it was dramatically colder outside Sherlock’s heavenly cocoon.

“Come back, you were warm,” Sherlock muttered in that deep vibrato voice.

John’s eyes fluttered open sanguinely, but he soon realised the invitation was probably fiction when he saw Sherlock’s closed eyes. It wasn’t unusual for John’s mind to invent things when he was plastered-- and his mind was certainly in a snarl tonight-- so John disregarded the proposition, and let his eyes fall closed.

“John, I’m serious. It’s fucking freezing in here.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes for a brief moment before scooting in closer so that they were nose to nose, knee to knee. There was far less skin contact this way, but it felt more intimate to be able to see Sherlock’s face in a state of total relaxation, and feel it spread over his own. Slow steady breathing, the sweet scent of Sherlock’s shampoo, and suddenly two slender hands capturing his own, pulling him closer; _always closer._

John hastily wiped away the thin line of sweat from above his brow before Sherlock pushed their foreheads close so that their lips were mere centimetres away from each other. _All it would take is one nudge; just a tilt of my head and our lips would—_

“You’re flustered; trying to conceal that you’re thinking of kissing me. Are you considering it because you’re still slightly inebriated or do you really fancy this?” Sherlock questioned.

John wanted this more than words could explain, but kissing Sherlock was just a pipe dream; a shower fantasy. _My imagination is vivid enough to get off on, but I’m desperate for something to happen for real._ With this revelation, John grabbed the back of Sherlock’s head and pulled himself up close enough so that their lips were just barely touching.

“I want this more than anything, Sherlock.”

In the dim light of the lamp on John’s bedside table, their faces smashed together with such fervour that nothing was accomplished by the kiss but acquiring closer physical proximity— _always closer._ As he pulled away, John saw that carnivorous look in Sherlock’s eyes that he had imagined earlier. _My dreams are literally coming true—_ except that his visage in real life was so much more passionate and complex, there was almost a hint of desperation in his expression.

Sherlock lifted John’s hand to his chest, where John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating furiously, pumping blood all around his body, _to one location in particular._

Sherlock fished his foot in between John’s ankles and pulled one of John’s feet between his own. Sherlock caressed the instep of John’s foot slowly with his own, and then moved up the inner side of John’s calf and back down again, all while keeping his eyes fixed on John’s face, searching for feedback. The motion sent shivers all over John’s body, and now that their legs were intertwined John could feel all of Sherlock’s warm body against his own even— _even the semi-erect cock between his thighs that is now pressing into my leg._

“God, Sherlock. Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

“My clothes were soiled during the course of my experiment,” Sherlock mumbled, obviously not in the mood for questions. “Now kiss me again.”

More gently this time, John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s, and teased his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue. Their tongues danced together slowly; swirling and receding, only to push forward once again. John felt himself melt into Sherlock, unsure of how far Sherlock wanted to go with this.

Any doubts were slashed out of John’s mind, as Sherlock rolled on top of him, straddling his hips. As soon as he was done manoeuvring himself and adjusting his weight, he leaned down and kissed John’s neck, and started stroking John’s erection through his pants. Smirking at John devilishly, Sherlock slid his thumbs under the elastic of John’s pants and pushed them down to reveal John’s desire for his flatmate in its purest form. Sherlock appealed for John’s consent with his still-hungry eyes, and John nodded his silent and impatient acquiescence. Lowering himself onto John, Sherlock’s member was now set exactly against John’s.

John exhaled loudly, and Sherlock could smell the anticipation and lingering scent of alcohol on his breath.  
After a few moments of grinding against him and eliciting a myriad of moans and pleas for mercy, Sherlock began stroking both of their cocks together.

“Oh God that’s perfect Sherlock” The pressure’s just right-- oh God oh fuck…

Almost immediately John felt himself teetering just on the edge of orgasm, “Too fast,” he whispered, short of breath.

Sherlock slowed to a steadier pace, and licked around the rim of John’s ear and whispered, “I want to see you come, I want to make a mess of this glorious bed of yours.”

A few more seconds, and John was sent over the cliff into a gorge of pleasure— _I feel like I’m floating._ He reacts the same every time; eyes clenched shut, lips pressed into a hard line, hands pulled into fists so tight that his knuckles turn white.

Sherlock rolls off him and John keeps stroking himself until he gets to a reasonable state of arousal. He reaches over and takes Sherlock’s dick in his hand, stroking swiftly, rubbing his thumb over the little bead of liquid that forms on the head with every other stroke.

“Oh John, oh God oh God” Sherlock grunts as he chokes back any exclamations, and with an exuberant sigh he settles his head on John’s chest. John pets Sherlock’s hair soothingly and pulls the sheet up over both of them.  
^^^

Golden beams of sunlight drifted through John’s window, casting light on the patch of sheets where Sherlock had slept the night before. John smoothed his hands over them— _they’re still warm._ He pushed himself up off the bed to go close the curtains, and was pleased to find a thin coating of snow on the ground— _Ah yes, Christmas has come early._ He pulled his robe tightly around him, and heard footsteps on the floor behind him.

“I presume you’d like to join Mrs Hudson and me to celebrate the beginning of winter… and other recent events?” Sherlock smiled benignly at John, and offered his hand from his place in the doorway. John strode over to him, and to his surprise, found his fingers intertwined with Sherlock’s as he was pulled into the kitchen, where Mrs Hudson was waiting.  
“Oh look at the two of you, smitten like children, it’s refreshing.”

John and Sherlock took the two chairs opposite her and John marvelled at the feast set on the table. One plate full of bacon, another of eggs, and one piled high with pancakes.

“This is a beautiful breakfast, Mrs Hudson; we really can’t thank you enough.” John insisted, feeling Sherlock’s hand sneak behind him to rest on his lower back.

“I wish I could say I cooked all this, but you’ve got Sherlock to thank,” she responded, nodding towards Sherlock. John’s eyes met Sherlock’s and there it was again, that ravenous look that made John’s cheeks flush. “It’s a shame for all this food to go to waste, but I don’t think any of us are quite in the mood for eating right now…” Mrs Hudson chuckled and headed for the door.

“Do you remember what we did last night?” Sherlock asked flatly, once they were alone.

“Yes. I…”

“Good, because I would like to recreate the experience sometime…” Sherlock continued.

“Well, I” John stammered.

“Now,”

For the first time in his career, Sherlock missed a murder case.

It made for a lovely afternoon.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fic, so please leave comments to help me improve!


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